Feste's Lute

Fresh craters give
our raving weight.
Regret appended
by the state.
Flesh and
seed and core
and stem.
As fashion breaks,
the forge begins.
Corpse-like
comrades prate.
Offense remains
for siblings sake.

Unfocused,
glee speaking.
Lost and loss,
stammer and
gloss surveyed
— sanity tossed.
Away.
Let’s play.
Et tu, Mon?
Its truest sense
weighed and won
with a phrase.

Dreams lace
through forking fingers.
Paths of joy
distorting features.

Swinging stammers.

Shudders.

Hate.

Gloss surveyed
away.

The stars part,
a morn stillborn,
sea-sparked driftwood bright.

A tangle of grain
with well-worn weight,
and strains of ancient blights.

Quilting the shores,
they slumber the deep
abhorred, they fade from sight.

A portrait
of faces,
sentimental
lace, traits and
latent forays
unfortunate.

She swayed like
a continent.

He brayed with
fierce confidence.

They fell as
they tasted
the mist
in heaven’s hold.

‘Twined fingers
braced
and prayed
for impact.

“We’ve settled
for sentiment.”
There, I’ve said it.
Once taken
for granite,
we’ve morphed
into something meta.

Lithe eyes twined the violets,
with violins and violence.
Lithe eyes laugh in silence,
delight like laceration strikes.

Drove reckless
for the turn —
of phrase, of fables
fading in the day.

Made light
by shining,
by bright, clear
drops
of condescension.

My patterns are
unmade,
knots on gravestones
soon forgotten.

Sand and isthmus,
kelp and keel
have run aground.

Waters listless,
scoffing seals and
skiffs abound.

The tides have taken,
the ocean seized her
as we yawned.

Awaiting dawn.
Keep clam
and carry prawn.